


High Noon

by audreycritter



Series: Batfam Week 2017 [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfam Week, Gen, Hospitals, Hot Weather, Hurt/Comfort, bruce is sort of helpless, oh no it's alfred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:30:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: A Wayne Foundation picnic on an unexpectedly hot day leads to a family emergency.But this time, instead of Bat stuff?It's Alfred.





	High Noon

The crisply fogged late spring morning promised a rise in temperatures and relief from the relentless week of chill and rain. The sun rose and chased away the fog to reveal cloudless blue, picturesque skies and a temperature that steadily climbed a full twelve degrees past the predicted high before the clock even struck noon.

It was soaring past the perfect day for a Wayne Foundation fundraising picnic and straight into weather more suited to a poolside event. Fortunately, there was a copse of mature trees on the south side of the park to provide a bit of shade from the blistering sun, and a line of white-canopied event tents to shield the buffet line of catered food and a dozen or so dining tables.

The heat did not discourage everyone, and while many milled about fanning faces, several others had happily taken up games of frisbee or croquet in the wide field. There were frequent pauses in the games for water or lemonade breaks.

Bruce Wayne was not participating in any field activities but was working his way through the crowd, stopping every few feet to chat with someone or a small group. Even in the light khakis and the thin sweat-wicking polo, he was feeling overwarm. When he paused to drink a bottled water, it wasn’t very cold either— there was a drink table with iced cucumber water a few tents away, but he had a thing about unsealed liquids. It was more effective closer to body temperature anyway.

While draining half the bottle, he did an automatic visual check. There were no faces he didn’t at least vaguely recognize, no one in unusual clothes or behaving strangely. Damian was managing to sulk and play frisbee with Dick at the same time, unbothered by the heat. Tim and a small crowd of teenagers had taken over a dining table to play some sort of group game on their phones, and their cheerfully angered shouts occasionally interrupted conversation.

Cassandra was in Hong Kong. Alfred was snippily directing a duo of caterers to not overfill the buffet dishes. The sharp tone made Bruce wonder how many times the same two wait staff had already received the exact same instructions; even tempered, Alfred’s patience had its limits. Bruce’s phone had a text from Jason of a picture of Jay and Stephanie by the manor pool and the words, _hiya loser, this pool is huge can we use the jet ski?_.

Bruce almost didn’t answer because he knew they weren’t serious, but the nagging sense of a loose end and his own culpability if he hadn’t _actually_ refused made him sigh and type, _No_.

Satisfied that everyone was accounted for and that no one extra was crashing the picnic, Bruce finished off his safe and not-potentially-poisoned water from home and plunged back into being social.

* * *

It took Bruce ten minutes to feel like he’d spent a fair amount of time listening to Mr. and Mrs. Considine’s complaints about construction near their city townhome, and another twenty minutes to actually free himself politely from the conversation.

When he did, he repeated his earlier visual sweep. Alfred was near a table being set up with shaved ice and syrups, clearly a last minute addition to the menu. The older man discretely pinched the bridge of his nose and Bruce felt a small tug of sympathy: they had both been playing this game for a long time, opposite ends of keeping a crowd happy. He made a mental note to suggest to Dick that they order dinner out. If Dick spearheaded it, roped siblings into it, Alfred was more likely to quietly step back and happily let them make their plans.

Win-win.

The table of shaved ice was already getting crowded, with wait staff formally serving older, seated or ambling guests, and the younger crowd self-organizing into a line. Tim materialized at his elbow, a cup of purple-colored shaved ice in one hand and his phone in the other. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen, clicking furiously while the ice began to melt around his plastic spoon.

“It’s safe,” he said to Bruce, his voice even lower and quieter than usual— and it was normally surprisingly low for a kid so short. “I did a tox screen.”

“Just now?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tim wiggled the phone he was playing on. “New tech. I’ll send you the stuff later. It’s pretty bug free, the code is good.”

“Good?” Bruce pressed, considering the ice.

“Good enough,” Tim answered, pocketing the phone and snatching up his spoon. Purple slush dropped from it when he took a bite. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said, slightly amused and a little touched. “I’ll stick with water for now.”

Tim shrugged. “Your loss. They have Godzilla.”

“That isn’t a flavor.”

Tim held the spoon right in front of his face. “You taste this and tell me it’s not Godzilla.”

“It smells like grape,” Bruce answered through shut teeth, refusing to pull his head back or open his mouth. “Grape cough syrup. If I taste this, I’m making you get a new cup.”

The spoon moved away from his face and Bruce swallowed his relief. Tim scowled at the ice and poked it before taking another bite. “I hate spleens,” he muttered.

“I know, sport,” Bruce said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Can you at least _pretend_ to eat one? I need to send Steph a picture and rub it in that she’s not here.” Tim’s eyes widened in what might have been an attempt at puppy eyes, but fell miserably short. It wasn’t a look he utilized often. It was more pathetic than endearing and it was probably that fact that made Bruce let out a short sigh and nod.

“Wait right here,” Bruce said, not particularly in the mood to play along and also have to hunt Tim down in the heat. There was a chance he’d just retreat to a table again, but the possibility he’d wander to take pictures or find Dick was too great.

When he reached the table, Alfred had a cup of plain shaved ice to hand him.

“How do you always know?” Bruce teased gently, in a good mood despite the weather. Even while faking more annoyance, he was grateful to have a chance to make Tim happy.

“I do _not_ always know,” Alfred snapped, not too harshly but far from the good-natured dryness Bruce had anticipated. “Otherwise, I may have prepared more thoroughly for a heatwave. Oh, good lord, those sandwiches are going to dry out.”

Alfred moved away before Bruce could summon more of a reply than simply frowning. They were definitely getting dinner out, if the day had become that stressful for Alfred. Things didn’t seem to be going poorly, overall, and Bruce wondered if there had been something else to upset the older man. He was still mentally cataloging events from the night before up until the morning when he rejoined Tim.

“You don’t have to look so angry,” Tim said a little bitterly. “Wait, you got plain? Honestly?”

“I’m not going to eat it,” Bruce replied, making an effort to soften his expression. “Take your picture.”

Tim grumbled but held up his phone and snapped the picture of them leaning together, Bruce stooping slightly and Tim raised up on his toes.

“Thanks, B,” Tim said, holding his cup in Bruce’s direction. Bruce took it automatically, and Tim used both thumbs to type a message and send it.

“Drink some water, Tim,” Bruce said, handing the purple slush back. “We’re ordering food tonight.”

The teen nodded and drifted away toward the table of other teens.

Bruce gave the plain ice a suspicious glance.

He ate it anyway.

* * *

The afternoon sluggishly passed by. The closest they came to a crisis was when Dick enlisted his help to get Damian into another application of sunscreen.

“I can do it, but I don’t want to be the bad guy,” Dick had said, the bottle already in his hand.

“Thanks,” Bruce had said dryly, before going off to hunt down his youngest. “Figure out a takeout dinner plan. Tell the others.”

Afterward, Bruce survived three consecutive conversations (only one of which was interesting) before finding Alfred again.

“Was that Marian Wagner you were talking to?” Alfred asked, while adding ice around a tray of fresh fruit.

Bruce looked over his shoulder and thought for a moment.

“Didn’t Marian Wagner have a stroke a few years ago?” Bruce asked in response, confused.

“Hm?” Alfred didn’t look up. “I saw her just now.”

“I thought she was…hm,” Bruce shook his head. “Maybe I’m thinking of somebody else.”

“Did Master Damian apply more sunblock?” Alfred asked, not offended by Bruce’s short insistence.

“Dick just told you he did,” Bruce said, now frowning in earnest. “I thought he had, anyway, when he was over here.”

“Oh? Perhaps he did,” Alfred said, his hands pausing. There were melted bits of ice on the food service gloves but even in the suit, Alfred wasn’t visibly sweating. Bruce wondered how many handkerchiefs would go into the laundry later in the evening. “I’ve been rather busy.”

“Dick’s making plans to order dinner,” Bruce said, leaving out that this was his idea. “So, you can take the night off, at least.”

“Brucie!” A shrill voice called across the tents, loud enough to still be clear even though the woman cupping a hand by her mouth was a few dozen yards away. A dozen heads turned.

“Duty calls,” Bruce said, repressing a sigh. Alfred didn’t answer.

Twenty minutes later, Bruce was still talking to Adrienne Lamont, but she’d linked her arm through his possessively and was doing most of the talking. The story was a long one that he’d initially thought had something to do with a vacation home she owned on an island, but was so rambling and disjointed in the telling that he wasn’t sure what the point of it was. She seemed very intent on drawing attention to her low neckline, which he had made the mistake of directly glancing at when she’d let a sweating cup of lemonade drip on.

The sound of breaking glass drew his attention away from her and toward one of the food tents.

Alfred was kneeling and gathering pieces of glass onto a tray from the concrete platform the tent was set up on. No one else was nearby, except a waitress hurrying over to help from another tent. That meant it had been Alfred who…

“Excuse me,” Bruce said distractedly to Adrienne, disentangling his arm. It was maybe nothing, but there was a sick twist of suspicion in his gut that something was wrong.

His hunches were not consistently right, but he often followed them anyway just in case.

The waitress was much closer to begin with and reached Alfred before he did, so by the time he crouched down to help them and ignore her startled surprise, most of the glass had been placed back on the tray.

“Alfred,” Bruce said, his worry deepening sharply when the older man’s hands shook, dropping the last shard of a cup. The waitress reached for the tray and Bruce let her take it.

“I…” Alfred began and trailed off. He wouldn’t look up and Bruce knew the man must be embarrassed; he hated drawing attention to himself at all, much less for errors. The crowd around them had mostly moved on, though.

“It was just some glass, Alfred,” Bruce said, feeling helpless. Maybe it’d be better to just move away and let him recover on his own, never mention it again.

“I’m feeling rather poorly,” Alfred said faintly, staggering a little as he tried to stand. “I think I will take that night off, after all.”

And Bruce stopped resisting the desire to steady the butler with a hand under his elbow as they rose. When Alfred met his gaze at the sudden contact, his eyes were distant and clouded with confusion.

His skin was dry and faintly reddened, not with anger or attention Bruce realized with a sick lurch, but with heat.

“Al,” Bruce said, not letting go of his elbow. Alfred leaned into it for balance. “Al, I’m taking you home. Right now.”

“The picnic…” Alfred said, his protest feeble. “I’ll need to oversee the clean-up.”

“When did you last drink something?” Bruce asked, steering him through the crowd. Most people didn’t pay any attention but he’d only made it through one tent before Dick and Tim were near them.

“I’ve been busy,” Alfred said sourly.

“Everything okay?” Dick asked, concern plain on his face.

“I’m taking Alfred home,” Bruce answered. “He’s showing some signs of heatstroke. Meet me at the car with a glass of water. Dick, find Damian and take him home.”

Tim took off to find water.

Bruce assumed Alfred would bitterly rebuke them for discussing him as if he weren’t present, and his silence was more worrying.

They made it to the car and Bruce cranked up the A/C, letting the vents blow hot air out of the way before the temperature dropped abruptly.

“Al,” he said, with the passenger door open, “take your jacket off.”

Alfred blinked at him and began to stammer a reply, but Bruce grabbed the collar and tugged it, gently, off the older man’s arms and back. He threw it in the back of the car and Alfred sat down and closed his eyes.

“Here,” Tim said breathlessly, handing over the glass he’d run across the grass with.

“Can you hold it?” Bruce asked, pressing it into Alfred’s hand. The older man’s fingers tightened obligingly but his hand was shaking, so Bruce helped him hold it after all.

“I feel ill,” Alfred murmured, after pushing the glass away.

“Should I call an ambulance?” Tim asked from behind. When Bruce turned, the anxiety on Tim’s face made him look much, much younger than the attempted puppy eyes had. The teen had the neck hem of his t-shirt in his teeth, his fingers pulling at it for tension.

And if Bruce hadn’t already been unsettled by Alfred’s behavior, watching calm, externally cool Tim all but dissolve pushed him right up close to near panic.

He turned back to Alfred and closed his own eyes and thought for a moment, just a moment. The hospital was closer and Alfred didn’t have the veritable landscape of suspicious scars the rest of them worried about.

“I am _not_ going to the hospital,” Alfred said, leaning back with a slight groan. “I just need to lie down. I’m quite alright.”

With the back of his hand, Bruce felt Alfred’s face. The older man pulled away with a hoarse noise of indignation but his skin was startlingly hot and dry.

“You aren’t. We’re going to the hospital.” Bruce stood and glanced at Tim. “Can you let Dick know and find a ride? And uh, the closing…” Beside him, Alfred moaned, a soft and thin sound, and Bruce lost his train of thought.

Tim nodded rapidly. “The closing speech. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Bruce closed the car door and slid into the driver’s seat just a few long strides later. Everything seemed to be taking too long, and he impatiently wrenched the keys in the ignition.

“How are you doing?” he asked, wanting to make sure Alfred was still conscious despite his closed eyes.

“Where are we going?” Alfred mumbled in reply, the words slurred just a little.

“The hospital,” Bruce said, pulling out of the parking lot a bit faster than the posted speed limit.

“Is Master Richard alright?” Alfred’s words were labored and thick with worry.

“Can you unbutton your shirt?” Bruce asked, instead of answering the question. He was more focused on the increase in Alfred’s breathing, and realized a second later his misstep when Alfred’s hands fluttered by his sides and his gasping grew more pronounced.

With a twist to the vent, Bruce angled the cold air a bit better and reached over to unbutton the top few pearl white buttons one-handed while driving.

“Dick is fine,” he said gently. “Take this off, will you?”

“Watch the road,” Alfred ordered, shoving Bruce’s hand away and fumbling with the buttons. “You’re swerving.”

Bruce wasn’t but he didn’t argue.

“I’d rather…” Alfred began, while slowly— too slowly— pulling his shirt off his arms. There was a thin, plain undershirt beneath it and Bruce resisted the surge of irrational anger he felt at how many layers the older man had been wearing on such a hot day.

“Al?” Bruce prompted, scanning the coming intersection and running the red light when it was miraculously clear enough.

“My head aches, and if you don’t…don’t mind…” Alfred held the shirt in his hands and seemed to have trouble finishing thoughts or keeping his grip on the material. When Bruce glanced over, the older man was trying to put it back on and the fear he felt was so sharp it made his heart ache.

“Just drop it, Al,” Bruce said, tugging it away easily. He tried to keep his tone even and calm and kind but he knew it was slipping a little.

Alfred watched his hands as if bewildered by the sudden absence of the shirt, and then gave a start and looked over at Bruce. He blinked, his eyes bright and dry and blank.

“I don’t feel well,” he repeated, more mumbled than before. “I don’t want to go. Please, just take me home.”

In all his life, Bruce had never heard or seen Alfred drunk, but he sounded very much like it now. The words were so free of inflection that the syllables blurred into each other and were barely above the volume of a harsh whisper.

He began to doubt his own decisions and wonder if he shouldn’t have let Tim just call an ambulance after all, even though they were now only two blocks from the nearest hospital.

“You need to see a doctor,” Bruce said, his voice worlds more sedate than he felt. “I promise it’ll help you feel better.”

“You hate hospitals,” Alfred said, his brow creased. “Are you well? Should I…I should drive?”

Bruce looked over, they were a block from the turn, and he thought maybe he could convey more with a reassuring smile.

He looked just in time to see Alfred put a hand to his head and slump forward, his torso slack, and it was only a combination of seat belt and Bruce’s hand that kept his head from slamming into the dash.

If he’d had the mental energy, Bruce might have sworn, but he was too busy driving one handed and beating back panic.

“Alfred.”

Alfred didn’t _do_ things like this.

“Alfred.”

 _Bruce_ did things like this. The kids did things like this.

_“Al.”_

Alfred simply _didn’t_.

He skidded onto the curb of the ER department entrance and his motions became a blur, even to him. He didn’t remember pushing Alfred upright against the seat so he didn’t fall over when Bruce sprinted around the car, leaving the driver’s door open. He didn’t remember leaving the door open. He didn’t remember unbuckling the seat belt or shaking Alfred’s shoulder, though he knew later he must have done all of those things.

He didn’t remember yelling at the first person in scrubs to walk by, but he did remember the hand of an orderly on his chest pushing him firmly but not roughly out of the way when the staff inside realized there was an unconscious patient.

The intake questions were a mix of obviously relevant and seemingly inane, that Bruce answered on his feet in a hallway while there was a flurry of activity around and just beyond him in a curtained room.

When he heard Alfred putting up a thin and confused protest against whatever the nurses behind the curtain were doing to lower his temperature, the fact that he was conscious again was only a minor balm over the wound the sound itself tore into Bruce. Another nurse had to repeat a question three times before Bruce could answer.

There had been a time when they’d had to take Dick to the hospital with pneumonia, when he was much younger. Bruce remembered being worried but flying through paperwork, glad for something he could do. The nervous energy had hit later, in the middle of the night, and kept him pacing uselessly.

This was all of that latent turmoil at once.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Dick; it was that when Dick, or any of the kids had ever been injured or ill, it had been Alfred right beside him as a nearly physical calm.

The long list of questions ended just as his patience and focus were wearing thin. He was directed to a small room with a couch, chair, and nothing else, where a woman was sitting and talking on a cellphone in a weary murmur.

He took the chair and after a minute, she got up and left, without even looking at him.

The waiting was like a stakeout. He didn’t get up half a dozen times to stand at the door or go back and forth in the closet-sized room. There was no clock and he lost sense of the passage of time, sitting motionless and staring at the blue-upholstered couch. He was afraid if he moved at all, it’d be to put a hole in the drywall with his fist.

And after years of training, Bruce was very, very good at waiting out a problem.

But the lack of control here made him feel like a spinning top, tipping over at the end of its momentum, about to careen wildly and skid across the floor.

He didn’t move on the outside, at all.

It wasn’t until his phone vibrated for the fourth time that he registered it and slipped it out of his pocket, comprehension only coming slowly. As soon as it was in his hand, the sleek metal and battery a weight against his palm, that he starkly just _wanted_ to call Leslie.

That feeling had ebbed into something bitter by the time he’d read and processed the messages. One from Dick, one from Tim, two from Jason. They were in the waiting room, apparently, and demanding updates.

He opened a text to reply and had no idea what to write.

 _Will update soon_ , he typed instead of any attempt at details.

He decided he’d give it fifteen more minutes and then leave the room and hunt somebody down and get some answers, some kind of news. Fifteen sounded both reasonable and like a small kind of eternity.

But it had only been seconds before his phone was buzzing again.

_wtf b where r u howis he?_

Jason.

_Should I arrange for a transfer to G Memorial?_

Tim.

_update asap PLEASE, trying to keep D and J from killing someone. had to confiscate d’s knives in car they’re in glovebox._

Dick.

Bruce read them and waited for a half a beat before he realized the other message was waiting for was the one…from Alfred.

He exhaled and left most of the messages unread aside from the notification drop downs. The clock on the screen told him it had been over an hour since he’d arrived, which he was vaguely surprised about. He replied only to Dick, the only thing he could think of that he knew they might all neglect and could actually do, just, _make sure everyone eats. no updates yet._

There were more messages but he didn’t really read them, other than scanning for emergency words.

He waited.

Bruce was just standing to go find someone to grill for information, very strictly reminding himself that even upset he had to sound like Bruce Wayne and _not_ a cape and cowl, when the half-closed door was pushed all the way open.

A lab-coated doctor stood there with a stethoscope looped around his neck, giving him a cursory glance.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” This wasn’t really an apology. “I wanted to let you know what’s going on.”

There was a very small part of Bruce that was very aware that he should be relieved he hadn’t been asked to sit down first. It wasn’t much, it didn’t feel like enough.

The doctor held out his hand and Bruce shook it on reflex. “I’m Dr. Norton. Normally in these circumstances, we’d need to speak with family and not an employer, but Mr. Pennyworth has you listed as his emergency contact and I’ve been told the situation is…”

He paused and Bruce didn’t think twice before clearing his throat, which felt unusually tight all of a sudden, and supplying simply, “He’s family. How is he?”

“His temperature came down and we’ll keep getting fluids into him. We had to give him a sedative and a muscle relaxant to reduce the strain on his system, keep it from retaining heat through exertion. I’ve ordered some scans— a CAT, an ultrasound, an EKG, and some blood work, just to see the extent of any possible organ damage. Just from my experience, I’d say you got him here soon enough that I’m not very worried, but everybody is different and we’re not really out of the woods yet. I’ve gone ahead and admitted him and we’re going to move him up to general on the fifth floor after the scans, since those will take a bit and we’ll want to keep him for observation anyway. If you want to come sit with him while he waits for radiology, you can. It should just be a few minutes.”

Bruce usually prided himself on his attention to details and his ability to absorb them, but half of these went in and out his head without making any sense. He was going to have to find and read over a patient chart later to fill in the gaps, but for now, following the doctor back to the curtained room he’d been led away from earlier was consuming enough.

Behind the curtain, Alfred was asleep on a hospital bed with both railings raised. A heart monitor beeped low and there was an IV drip, but no other medical equipment. The doctor was gone almost as soon as they reached the threshold, so Bruce was alone when he dragged a chair over and sat down.

Alfred was pale and Bruce’s mouth was dry. When the chair scraped across the floor, Alfred roused a little and searched the room with his eyes before finding Bruce. He gave him a gently, sleepy, not-completely-there kind of smile and patted the sheets with his hand.

There was a cement block on Bruce’s chest and he took Alfred’s hand, leaned forward with his arm across the bed railing and his chin propped on his forearm. Alfred already looked asleep again and it frightened Bruce to study the familiar face and be aware, as if for the first time, of the deeper lines there. The hand in his was cool now, but the skin across the back of Alfred’s hand was thin and veined and there was a small group of brownish spots Bruce had never noticed before.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Alfred said, in a rasped and muted tone. “It was rather foolish of me to—”

Bruce looked up from their hands and frowned, his chin still supported by his own arm and his face not far from Alfred’s. The older man’s eyes were heavily lidded.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, disregarding the frustrated and terrified anger of earlier. “Don’t worry about us right now. Get some rest.”

Alfred nodded acquiescence and stopped trying to keep his eyes open.

When a nurse and orderly pulled aside the curtain, first cautiously and then quickly, Bruce lifted his head and rose to his feet, reluctantly releasing Alfred’s hand while they made adjustments around the bed and unlocked the wheels. He’d been leaning there long enough that there was a crick in his neck, and he rubbed at it while the nurse talked to Alfred cheerfully as if he were fully awake.

And then they were gone from the room. Bruce might have given a farewell of sorts or a promise to see Alfred upstairs but he couldn’t really remember. The weight of his phone reminded him that the boys were waiting, possibly Cassandra too by this point if someone had gotten in touch with her, and maybe others— Babs, Steph.

Instead of feeling on edge, now he felt drained. The day had already been long enough before this and now the exhaustion, mental and physical, went to his bones. He made his way toward the ER waiting room without asking for directions, following the signs of the unfamiliar hospital.

Bruce pushed the door open just in time to see Jason standing at the triage and admitting station, his volume dangerously close to shouting, while Tim argued with him and tried to pacify the nurse. A security officer was already walking toward them and Dick was rising from his chair, putting a hand back against Damian’s chest to keep him in his own.

“Jason,” Bruce said, not sharply but loudly enough, and all four of them froze. Even the security guard stalled and looked over to see if Bruce’s intervening would save him some work.

Then Tim and Jason and Dick were all talking at once, complaining angrily about how many texts they’d sent and how long they’d been waiting. Only Damian was quiet, sullen and sitting with his arms crossed. Bruce headed for the chair next to his and sat down, letting them approach him with their fear and accusations before he spoke.

It worked, and to combat his silence, they’d all dropped into seats nearby again.

“He’s okay,” Bruce said. “They’re running some tests and admitting him overnight, so this isn’t over, but he’s conscious and probably fine.”

He willed it to be true, even as he spoke. They fell into a mix of relieved and tense quiet and Jason put his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Usual arguments felt far away from him, and Bruce felt for a moment like he had when Jason was much younger. He put a hand on Jay’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. The young man didn’t shake him off.

“I’m sorry I didn’t update you sooner. They kept me waiting for a long time, too,” he said, lamely, when he realized they were still waiting for him to do or say something. There was no distraction, no suggestion to get coffee or move to another room to calm down. “Did somebody text Cass?”

“I did,” Tim said. “She’s probably asleep, though.”

There was more silence and Bruce glanced over at Dick, who usually filled the gaps with _something_ , but his eldest looked distracted and was absently chewing his lower lip. He used to do that when he was smaller, sometimes to the point where it bled, and Bruce leaned around Damian and pulled the lip down with a gentle press of his thumb. Dick startled and looked at him, then rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

“We can head up to the fifth floor waiting room,” Bruce decided, slow and uncertain. “They’ll give us a room number when he’s up there.”

It was getting late. He wasn’t sure they’d eaten. He knew that, maybe, he should send them home for a while but he didn’t think they’d listen. So together, they made their way out of the room and toward an elevator, and when they were halfway there Damian put a tentative hand on Bruce’s wrist. Bruce looked down but the boy was glaring straight ahead, not up at him for consolation, despite the motion. It wasn’t quite like reaching for his hand and it wasn’t quite like a request, but Bruce turned his wrist and wrapped his fingers around Damian’s anyway. The small grip was stiff and tight at first but then incrementally relaxed.

He should _say_ something but he wasn’t sure what, he wasn’t sure what he could say to this boy who wasn’t kidnapped or injured or openly terrified but just needed promises Bruce couldn’t make. This wasn’t something he could fix, where he could swear on his life to get them to safety.

Dick and Jason argued in the empty fifth floor lounge, which was more like a wide hallway with some chairs. Tim logged on to the hospital network from his phone and studied Alfred’s charts and labs before handing the phone to Bruce. He scrolled through the screens and heard himself explaining some lab results to Damian, but information was still incomplete.

There was probably something else he should do, a plan he should make or instructions he should give. He kept thinking about food even though he wasn’t hungry. Jason and Dick kept sneaking glances at him, as if waiting for a command, and looking more antsy by the second for not receiving one. It mildly annoyed him, considering how often they just ignored his instructions anyway. Tim looked tired and was chewing on his shirt again; Bruce pulled that away, too.

Damian was sitting uncomfortably close to him, but still rigid like a block of wood. He supposed it was some sort of comfort.

The next person to step off the public elevator was a doctor, but not one that Bruce was expecting.

It was Leslie Thompkins, in plain clothes, her hair neat and trimmed. She hesitated just outside the elevator and out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Dick’s spine straighten and he could feel the anger rolling off Tim in waves.

“I was the secondary emergency contact,” she said flatly. “They must have been trying to find family. I wasn’t sure you were in town.”

She was talking to Bruce like she was both mad at him and half-expected him to slap her, and while there was an undercurrent of rage inside him, it was drowned out by sudden and simple relief. If she hadn’t already spoken, he probably would have wondered if he’d actually called her after all.

His expression as he rose must have said more than his fumbling words could or would have, because her own expression relaxed and she covered the distance between them and wrapped him in an unusual hug.

When she patted his back and stepped out of the embrace, she said, “I’ll stay a bit and then get out of your way.”

“Okay,” Bruce said, his voice more hoarse than he’d expected. “Thank you.”

“Dick, can you get us some coffee? I came straight from the clinic. Jason, is the cafeteria still open? Will you go check?”

She sat down across from Damian and didn’t even try talking to Tim, but he shoved the phone in her direction and then turned to pour his attention into studying some generic artwork on the walls.

The older boys relaxed and easily accepted her authority. Bruce sat back down and Damian edged closer to him again.

Knowing Leslie was sitting there, looking at the information on the hospital database, was far more calming than he could have predicted it would be and she didn’t ruin the feeling by trying to press him into conversation. Then again, the times _before_ , she’d always been like Alfred in that way— she was her sharpest when he’d really earned her ire. She never had tended to press or dictate, always had given him generous space to simply exist near her.

Half an hour later, the older boys had returned and Bruce had a sandwich in one hand he wasn’t eating and a cup of mostly untouched coffee under his chair. The boys weren’t at each other’s throats as much and Tim was messaging Cassandra and Stephanie from his phone, which greatly detracted from his own iciness. Damian was half-asleep leaning against Bruce’s arm and trying not to lean at the same time. Bruce put an arm around his shoulder, just long enough to firmly tug him over, and Damian gave up and went gradually limp.

More time trickled by.

Finally, finally, another doctor approached them. And just like the doctor downstairs, there was no hesitation, no questioning tone to confirm identities.

“We’re done with scans,” he said after a brief greeting and his name. “We’re waiting on some results but it looks good so far. It’s after visiting hours, but you can see him for a few minutes since you’ve been waiting. One person can stay overnight.”

They were all on their feet before he was done talking. Bruce was at the head of the quiet line back to the room, forcing himself to actually acknowledge and remember the room number. He stepped aside at the last moment and let the boys crowd into the room ahead of him, and just outside, Leslie paused with him and put a gentle hand on his arm.

“It’ll be okay, Bruce,” she said gently and he nodded, feeling like this was the first time in hours he’d believed it. She seemed mutually relieved that he’d accepted it without argument.

“I’ve lived without him before,” he said, struggling defensively against his own feelings and not her words. Admitting, even by implication, what he’d actually been afraid of was unhinging the panic he’d kept at bay, now that it was less of an immediate possibility. “But he was…he was fine. Just somewhere else.”

His breathing sounded too loud and quick to his own ears, but it must have felt worse than it was because Leslie’s own face showed mild concern and sympathy but nothing alarming.

“He’s important to you,” she said, agreeing without supplying specific emotional labels.

“I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t okay,” Bruce confessed raggedly. It seemed too basic to be such a hard thing to say, but it was hard, and he said it anyway because he rarely shied away from hard things and because it was all he could think, over and over again. It had been the mantra he’d kept back and held in his silence so the boys didn’t have to deal with Bruce’s own uncertainty on top of their own.

“I know,” Leslie said. “He’ll be alright, Bruce. Breathe.”

Bruce shut out the world and counted breaths, grateful that she wasn’t touching him. It wasn’t, in that moment, her, but the idea of coping with any physical contact while he tried to slow his own heart rate.

When he opened his eyes again, she was still right there, watching him. She looked a little melancholy, a little detached. She smiled, tiny and fragile, but encouraging. Bruce unclenched his fists and the numbness seeped out of him.

“I’ll say hello and I’ll go,” Leslie said.

“You can…” He swallowed. “You can come tomorrow. Here or the Manor. If you want.”

“We’ll see if he wants to see me that much,” Leslie said, with a sad twist to her mouth. “But thank you.”

She went in ahead of him.

The room was hushed and Alfred was asleep. No one was eager to wake him and after a moment, Jason turned and said roughly, “Keep me _actually_ fricking updated this time. I’ll be back in the morning.”

He left, Tim not far behind him.

“I’ll take Damian home,” Dick said tiredly, a few seconds later. “Call me if there’s news.”

It felt anticlimactic to have waited for so long and then disperse so quickly, but it was a consolation, too, that it no longer felt like such an emergency. Leslie left a little after Dick and Damian, giving the small of Bruce’s back a quick and distracted rub before she did.

Bruce sat in the chair against the wall, just beside the machines— only a few of them were in use— and leaned back.

A doctor came in, yet another this time, an hour later and said that most of the lab work and scans had come back normal. Bruce dutifully and mechanically sent texts to the boys and Cass. He trusted it would trickle down from there.

After a few minutes of wary contemplation, he also sent one to Leslie, and the login info for the hospital patient system. They could always change the password later but she’d look over things with a professional eye, and he was still shaky enough to feel like he needed it.

At some point, he slept.

When he woke, it wasn’t because of morning or light but rather, noise. A nurse smiled apologetically and whispered something about vitals when she stepped around his outstretched legs. He sat up and yawned. She worked for a moment and then checked the IV and left.

He felt wide awake, his shoulders stiff, and he considered a walk to find coffee or something after not eating or drinking anything earlier. A check of his watch told him it was nearly three in the morning.

That was when he realized Alfred was awake, quietly watching him with only a minimally sleepy expression.

“Hey,” Bruce said, pulling the chair closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a pincushion,” Alfred said, sounding more like himself than he had since the morning before. “Much better, though, overall. I must have given you a terrible scare.”

Bruce laughed a little, more the release of pent tension than actual humor. “You’re _never_ allowed to do that again.”

“I wholeheartedly concur,” Alfred said. Bruce was leaning forward and the older man lifted his hand and put it on Bruce’s cheek. Bruce closed his own hand over it when Alfred began to pull away a brief second later.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Bruce said, tired all over again at once. He finally let Alfred’s hand away from his cheek and kept holding it. “Need anything?”

Alfred squeezed his hand gently and closed his eyes again.

“If I need anything, I’ll fetch it myself,” he said stubbornly.

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Bruce said with a fond smile. “In fact, you should prepare yourself for, at a minimum, a few days off. Longer if you need it. We’ll survive, as long as you’re on the mend.”

“That sounds like hell,” Alfred commented wryly. This was followed by a small sigh that belied his protest.

“I’m serious,” Bruce said, frowning. “You’ve drugged me for rest before. Don’t think I won’t return the favor.”

“Was it that bad?” Alfred asked, sounding surprised and opening his eyes to gaze directly at Bruce. “It is rather a bit of a muddled blur.”

“It scared the fuck out of me, Al,” Bruce said plainly. The scolding, raised eyebrow was a further reassurance and he didn’t feel guilty in the least. “Leslie came by. I didn’t tell her to leave. If that’s any indication.”

“Well, then,” Alfred said soberly. If he had feelings about Leslie’s visit he didn’t show them. “I’ll rest as long as I can, then, if it’ll make you feel more at ease.”

“It’ll help _you_ ,” Bruce returned. “And that’s what I want, right now. I’ll do whatever I need. Just tell me what.”

“Alright,” Alfred said, pulling his hand away to run his fingers once through Bruce’s hair. He let it drop back against the bed and Bruce sat back in the chair. “I’m not sleepy in the least, though.”

“Television or book?” Bruce asked. “I’ve got my phone. I can download something.”

“Tell me about your day. Before. The picnic,” Alfred said. “I hardly remember any of it and I don’t like the feeling at all.”

Bruce left the phone in his pocket and hid a yawn with his hand. He thought back to watching Damian chase a frisbee Dick had thrown wildly high on purpose.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll catch you up.”

And he did. He talked until Alfred himself yawned and drifted back to sleep when sunlight was peeking through the hospital blinds.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to cerusee for encouragement and workshopping and pre-reading!


End file.
